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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067118">The Poor Boy On The Road</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Five/pseuds/Five'>Five</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hadestown - Mitchell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Prequel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:08:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,663</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067118</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Five/pseuds/Five</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What road brought young Orpheus and his mother, the muse, to meet with Hermes and with Orphic Fate?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>i. calliope and apollo in this life</em>
</p><p>The traveling show had come into town. It sprung up in the fairgrounds overnight. Tents of all colors were pitched. They filled the space in red and gold and green and brown, heating the air with fried-up snacks and the sound of song. A whip cracked, sounding the roar of a tiger in a grand purple tent.</p><p> </p><p>But all were chirping and chattering to herald Apollo’s return.</p><p> </p><p>He played a set once on the hour, except when it was time for a meal, or if he’d met someone with a particular charm- such as warrants a break. People came from all over to hear him. They left coins in his open case which filled nearly to the top some days. For some this sort of life might have been a way to scrape by. Apollo made his fortune this way. </p><p> </p><p>His music was beautiful. Calliope had not a coin to give him. So, she gave him poetry and his lyrics became beautiful. Apollo had hardly any time to give her, so he lay beside her only at night when the fair had closed for the day. The bed was narrow and cracks in the tent leaked starlight. They were comfortable enough nevertheless. She’d rest sweetly against his warm neck and shoulders, run her fingers through his flaxen curls. He’d laugh.</p><p> </p><p>September came and the travelling show was gone. Calliope was sent out to fetch paper and write up some new songs, and when she came back, there was no more than an empty field and the holes in the ground that had staked tent-poles. Apollo left a note, a lyre-case- his lyre, not his coins, and a life growing inside Calliope he didn’t care to know.</p><p> </p><p>Her face crumpled and her whole body collapsed under her. She sat on the grass, which was already drying up and turning yellow with the spring and clutched it. She tore it out by handfuls so that she’d rip up the ground and not her throat, wailing. He was always there. The wind would always blow. He was always gone. Still, she cried hot tears. If she walked back to him and begged, would Oeagrus shelter her this time? Gods, would this boy, this Orpheus growing to be, would his short life be a happy one this time? Last time she hadn’t been so poor or so alone.</p><p> </p><p>She lay there for hours, crying, and breathing deeply before crying again. Then she stood up, and she walked. The sun hadn’t set on the city yet. She’d make it there before sundown, pregnant and barefoot and begging. Gods, she’d bring him up right. Gods, she’d hold him tight. Gods, he’d know she was there without ever having to turn around.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>ii. calliope, leaving the city</em>
</p><p>Calliope let her legs hang off the edge of the train car as she filled it with poetry. The freight train would depart soon- when dusk came- and without it even knowing, carry her and her boy to safety, or at the very least, somewhere warm. Somewhere with a roof to keep him dry and four walls to stave off the chill of the winter when it came.</p><p>            “Mama, what are you writing?” She picked him up and sat him on a crate. He gave his sweet little smile as she lifted him up, and, oh, how she laughed.</p><p>            “Nothing, baby,” she told him, kneeling to meet his eyes, “remember, I ran out of paper before we left the city.”</p><p>            “No, in your head, I mean! You’ve always got the best stories in your head, mama, you don’t even need paper.”</p><p>            “It’s a poem, baby. Poems can tell a story. They call that an epic poem.”</p><p>            “Can I hear it?” he asked, bright eyed as he jumped down from the crate to get closer to his mother.</p><p>This was not her first son. it was not her first Orpheus. So many times, she’d held him tight as long as she could, watched him spring up into the world and grow up tall. Watched him fall in love and break out on his own. Heard the wails from down the river. From Thrace, to the mountain town, to the city, by Apollo, or Oeagrus, or some other mortal king. This time she’d take up Hermes on his offer, stay with him for a while. Perhaps some other hands could raise him better. Her soul was weary, heavy from heartbreak and worn-thin by love. She could feel it in her dreams.</p><p>            “I don’t have the words yet, baby. I’m worried I might be running out of ‘em. Maybe I’ll feel better if you play for me.” She drew out the best thing she owned from its case of battered black leather. The lyre. Orpheus held it in his little hands, his face shadowing with a look of wisdom beyond his years as he adjusted the strings and began to play. Calliope closed her eyes and felt as the train began to move across the tracks. When Orpheus played, time and space began to glide. She loved him so.</p><p>            “I’m cold, mama,” Orpheus said, “is it warmer where we’re going?”</p><p>            “I hope so.” She took off her threadbare wool coat, the one with the satin lining bunched by loose threads and torn half away from the coat and wrapped it over his shoulders. Like all of his clothes, it was big on him. These days, it was big on Calliope, too. Everything she owned was too big- she had grown too small. “Are you hungry?”</p><p>            “A little.”</p><p>            Calliope drew out a brown paper and unwrapped a bit of bread, giving it to him along with an apple she’d snuck from the orchards along the way. As he ate, she stood, making her way to the door of the freight car. She peeked through the crack with one eye. Dusk had come, and like a weak-legged traveler, dusk had fallen. She pulled the tarp from a stack of crates and spread it for a blanket.</p><p>            “Come on. Let’s get some sleep,” she whispered softly, and nestling up to Orpheus, she closed her eyes until morning.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>iii. with hermes</em>
</p><p>The train stopped for a repair at a small station, if you could even call it that. It was a rotting-wood bench in a little shelter, and a sign reading <em>Thrace to Hadestown</em>, in good need of painting. Freight trains could stop there at will without worry of holding up any other train. Passengers only came and went once a year.</p><p>For Calliope and Orpheus, this stop was a blessing. Calliope scooped him up in her arms- he was getting a bit heavy to do so- and jumped. Her feet hit the ground with a jolt, pain surging through her ankles. She pressed him to her body and ran. He stirred, opening his big brown eyes groggily.</p><p>“Mm…” he wanted to ask her something, but instead, his sleepy eyes closed back on themselves. She crossed a wide, open field, and, gasping for breath, darted towards the town. Most of the houses didn’t have electric light at all. In those that did, most were out for the night. This was a town of working people, or people out of work. Either they’d eaten up their energy at a day’s work and gone to bed, or eaten up the last of what they had and sat on in the dark.</p><p>One light was always on. It was the grandest building in town, a little shabby, but big and bright. <em>Mister Hermes’s</em>. The bar. It was always open. Calliope knocked on the door.</p><p>Her old friend answered.</p><p>“Why its Miss Calliope!” he gave her a kiss on each cheek. “You don’t have to knock here. It’s a bar. Always open. And if it wasn’t- my door’s always open to you.” He smiled and beckoned her in. Then he paused. “And…is this Orpheus?”</p><p>She nodded and gently handed him to Hermes, who had extended his arms to carry her load. He smiled and put the boy in his arms, stroking his hair with the back of his hand.</p><p>“You’d better come ‘round the back door. We’ll talk over a cup of something hot.”</p><p>The back-door lead into Hermes’ private rooms. There was a kettle on the stove and plates piled high in the sink. Flowers in a vase on the table, beginning to wilt. A bright tablecloth. Hermes put Orpheus down on the worn green couch to sleep on. With his free hand he beckoned Calliope to sit down so he could bring her tea.</p><p>“I need a favor,” she said, when the tea was poured. She sipped quietly. “It’s a big one.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“My boy. My Orpheus. I can’t provide for him anymore, I can barely feed myself. It’s…a hard time for everyone. Poetry, I’m just not sure what it can do for people anymore,” she started to cry, rousing Orpheus from his sleep.</p><p>“Mama, what’s wrong?” he stood up and came to her side, standing behind her as if waiting for permission to take the next seat at the table.</p><p>“I’m just tired, honey. It’s been so long since I’ve slept. I’m beginning to lose steam.” She wiped her tears away with the heel of her hand, and he offered up his little bandana for eyes. That only made her cry harder. “You’re so good to me. Keep it, keep it.” She looked to Hermes for guidance- the two of them needed to talk, just the two of them.</p><p>“Orpheus, can you do something for me? I’m your mama’s friend, Hermes. There’s a little linen closet down the hall, first door that way. Can you go find a few good blankets and pillows?”</p><p>            “Yes, Mister Hermes,” he nodded, wandering off.</p><p>            “I need to find him a place to stay. Can he stay with you for a while? Just him. I won’t put the burden of two of us on you. I’ll send money whenever I can. Or I can stay, so you don’t have to worry about bringing up a child, I’ll just find ways to feed myself and I’ll stay out during the day—”</p><p>            “Breathe, Calliope.” He put his hands on hers and took in a deep, slow breath, inspiring her to do the same. “Let’s just open the couch for now. We can plan him a future in the morning. In the meantime, you’re welcome here as long as you’d like. And so is your boy.”</p><p>            “I promise I won’t be long.”</p><p>            “Whatever you need, Calliope. And what he- he still needs you. You’re his mother.”</p><p>            Calliope choked on the knowledge that she couldn’t be what he needed. For now, she just nodded, and gave an unburdening thank you. Orpheus plodded back in behind a bundle of blankets and pillows.</p><p>            “Help yourselves from the pantry,” Hermes said, “I’ll open up the couch for the night. Just the one bedroom, I’m afraid, but maybe we can work something out with the attic or my office. We’ll work something out. You just rest now. Don’t you wear yourself thin.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>iv. only orpheus</em>
</p><p>By the time Orpheus was fifteen, he had grown taller and leaner. He was no longer a round-fingered little boy, but rather his hands were long and precise. Money was tight but he scraped by. At Mister Hermes’s, cleaned up every evening and opened up every morning. For this, he got a roof over his head and food in his stomach. His and his mother’s, actually. They occupied an attic which was neither a part of the bar or the house but stretched across both. The ceiling was low enough to tousle Orpheus’s curls, and the corners were filled up with boxes of old treasure he didn’t dare open, but it was warm and dry. There was a camp-bed and an old divan, and in a neat corner, his lyre.</p><p>            Most days of course, his lyre was with him. His beautiful hands learned to play beautiful melodies, the richest and most complex you could ever imagine. His voice grew into a proud, high tenor. It touched the sky and sank to settle in the tree-tops. When it settled there, the leaves soaked it in like sunlight. This kept people coming to the bar, and so it kept the three of them in good enough standing to get by.</p><p>            Calliope was happy to get by, even just to scrape. It wasn’t right, though, she knew. Not when Hermes could be flourishing. Not when her son could be playing into prosperity. Not when that hanging weight was coming as he started to become a man. Not when he would meet his lover soon.</p><p>            And besides, she thought, she hadn’t been made to stay in one place. Muses were supposed to follow the wind, to inspire where inspiration was needed.</p><p>            She said all these words to herself a million times, and she knew that she had to go. Nevertheless, it ached.</p><p>            “Be brave,” she told Orpheus once again, “believe in yourself. Love with all your soul and body- do it without hesitation. Without doubt.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead one morning before his eyes were clear and focused, “And I will see you again.”</p><p>            By the time he was fully awake, she was gone, her words clinging to the air with sweet power.</p><p>            When he next picked up his lyre and stood with it in his corner, he sang every word he could remember her voice singing. When he ran out of those, he built new verses. He spun out her words into epics that made people weep with sorrow and joy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>v. lover</em>
</p><p>Summers came and went, always feeling longer when Persephone came around to drink and laugh and smile. Orpheus would play to the room, creating a rhythm which carried the revelry. Together they raised many a glass and drank to the sun, to the air and the sky.</p><p>            “Orpheus!” Persephone said, coming in through the door on the first day of summer.</p><p>            “Lady Persephone! That time again already?”</p><p>            “Sure is. Get me a glass of something.” She sat down across the bar.</p><p>            “Yes, ma’am.” He turned quick and began taking a glass off the shelf, quickly giving it a little extra shine.</p><p>            “Better yet make it a bottle.”</p><p>            “Was it that bad?” he asked. She nodded. Orpheus listened, he always listened. She loved that about the boy. He listened and he was kind. When the summer ended, he’d sing her songs for her. With his lyre, he’d keep a light on in the winter with which she could find her way home.</p><p>            “Do you want to tell me about it?”</p><p>            “Sit down. Pour yourself a glass.”</p><p>            He always did. It wasn’t just for Persephone, the lady of the land, but for any person with a story to tell, and a smile they hadn’t seen in a while. They could count on him. He knew them all, and they knew him too.</p><p>            It was different when he saw her. He hadn’t seen her before, this girl who reminded him of a flower growing up from the cracked pavement. But he knew her all the same. In fact, he knew her better than any of the bar’s regulars. He could see her face when he closed her eyes. The breath left his lips. The music stopped. His lyre clattered down as quick as it could without breaking. His heart stumbled off its beat.</p><p>            He turned to Hermes, Hermes who he trusted more than anyone, who sheltered him and taught him and talked to him at night when he was fifteen and lost his mother, the only constant in his windblown world. <em>Tell me what to do,</em> he thought.</p><p>            “Love her,” Hermes said with his eyes. Orpheus understood at once. “Don’t come on too strong.”</p><p>            <em>Be brave,</em> Orpheus remembered. <em>Believe in yourself. Love with all your soul and body- do it without hesitation. Without doubt.</em></p><p>            “Come home with me?”</p>
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